


Lazarus

by ladymac111



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Buffyverse - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock, resurrection spells … they don't work.  Something always goes wrong.”</p><p>An alternate Reichenbach theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gift

 

* * *

 

“You're wrong, you know.”

The voice came from behind her, and Molly almost jumped out of her skin. She whirled around to face Sherlock as he stepped out of the deepest shadows in the darkened lab.

“You do count,” he continued, softly. “You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.”

He really wasn't, if he was admitting it. Her skin prickled a little. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Molly … I think I'm going to die.”

Oh shit. Oh shit, she had been right. But how, why? “What do you need?”

He hesitated for half a moment. “If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything that _I_ think I am … would you still want to help me?”

The answer was obvious; surely he knew. “What do you need?”

He stepped close. She almost shrank back, but instead she took a deep breath and stood strong as his facade cracked. “You.”

She shook her head even as her heart ached. “I don't understand.”

“I know what you are, Molly.”

She froze. He couldn't possibly know _that_. Could he? He'd never made a mention of it before. It must be something else. “What do you mean?”

“You have … powers. You can help me.”

“I don't have any power around here, not really. If you want me to falsify an autopsy--”

“You know that's not what I mean,” he interrupted.

Her blood ran cold. “Then tell me what you mean.”

“You're a witch. You can do magic.”

Heavy silence fell between them. She turned away from him, looked at the door, turned a bit farther and found a stool that was pushed halfway under a counter. She scooted up onto it, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. “It's been a long time since I used anything bigger than a charm to find a lost object.”

“So it's true.”

She looked up. He was standing just where he had been before, his face half in shadow now. She couldn't read his expression. “Yes, it's true.”

“You've done a very good job hiding it.”

“Well I have to, don't I? People can't know.”

“I imagine not.”

“I can't see you,” she said suddenly. “I mean, with the lights off.”

He paused for a moment, then went to the wall and flipped one one bank of lights. It was enough that she could see him now, could see the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly manic desperation in all his movements. “I need you to help me. You did offer, earlier.”

“I just meant … I don't know what I meant. But not this, not magic.”

“Molly, please. There isn't another way.”

“What do you want?”

He took a deep breath. “Resurrection.”

A chill ran through her. “What?”

“I told you, I think I'm going to die. Clearly we can't let that happen, so I'll need to be brought back. You could do it.”

“Why are you going to die? What's going to happen?”

“Moriarty,” he bit out. “I can see his endgame. He's done all this work to ruin my reputation, but that's the last thing he needs, my death. Probably an apparent suicide. And to force my hand he'll threaten people.”

“People?”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “John.”

“Oh.” Of course.

“I've been in contact with Mycroft, and he's working. But the only way to be certain that John will safe is for me to die. For Moriarty to win. But if I don't really die, or if I don't stay dead, then I can still win.”

Molly stared for a long minute before she found her voice. “Sherlock, resurrection spells … they don't work. Something always goes wrong.”

“I've known for some time that this might happen, and I did some research,” he insisted. “There was a girl, about ten years ago, in California. She was brought back after six months in the grave with no ill effects.”

“No ill--? Sherlock, no. I couldn't. Didn't you hear what it was like for her?”

“I know you're powerful enough, Molly. You can do it. And I think I know some other witches if you need to form a little coven or something. They would help out.”

“It isn't a question of ability. I won't do that to you.”

“I'm not like her, Molly. It won't be the same.”

“What makes you so sure? How do you know that dying – that actually dying, actually _passing on_ – won't be better?”

“Are you actually telling me I should die?”

“God, oh, no. Sherlock, it's. It's just that this … this is really different than anything I've ever done. And I've done a lot for you but I've never done this for anyone. And I couldn't live myself if I took you away from … well.”

“Molly, listen to me,” he said emphatically. “I am not going to go to heaven.”

“You can't know--”

“I can. Because if John isn't there, I can't. If John is still here and still hurting, _I can't_. It wouldn't be heaven.” He seemed to shrink back, as if embarrassed at what he'd revealed. Eventually he took a breath and went on. “I could never be at rest without him.”

Molly stared. “You're in love.”

“No I'm not.” The statement lacked any conviction.

“You're willing to really die for him, to really go through that horrible pain of dying and coming back to life.”

“It's the only solution. It's the only thing I can do, to beat Moriarty.”

“You're sure there isn't any other way?”

“I wouldn't have come to you for this if I wasn't sure. No one could survive a fall from the roof of Bart's.”

Molly paled. “You're going to jump off the roof?”

“Public suicide. It's the only way.”

“Well, what if … what if we could make it so the fall didn't kill you?”

“You could do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe. If you're only injured I can heal you well enough that you'd survive.”

“Being _only injured_ is the tricky part of that.”

“There must be something that could help, but I've never done it before. I'd have to do some research.”

“What about some kind of levitation? _Arresto momentum_ or something?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know Harry Potter isn't real.”

“Anything to keep me from going splat would be good,” he said, irritated.

“Yes, I know. Sorry.” She leaned back against the counter. “I suppose … I could do a protection spell. I'm not sure how well it would work, though.”

“Would it slow my fall?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I've never tried anything like that.”

“Couldn't we experiment?”

“Magic doesn't always play well with experimentation. And we'd need a live test subject, anyway. It wouldn't work on something inanimate.”

Sherlock ruffled a hand through his hair. “So you can do a protection spell, which may or may not reduce the damage done when I hit the pavement. And I know you could falsify hospital records, if I survive, but if I die you won't bring me back.”

“It's not only that I think it's a bad idea, Sherlock. What you're talking about, it's … it's a human death. The Powers That Be won't get involved with things like that. It's the natural order.”

“I don't _care_ what your powers think. This thing with Moriarty, there's nothing natural about it.”

“You can't think he's magical.”

“I don't, but still. There has to be a loophole, hasn't there? The slayer fell, and she was brought back.”

“It wasn't that simple, not like this. She closed a portal with her blood.”

“This is similar.”

“It's really not.”

“Molly, _please_ , I have to believe it's possible. There's only one way forward.”

She paused. “You're really going to do this, aren't you?”

“I have to.”

“Because of John?”

He looked away, and gave a curt nod.

Molly took a deep breath, and turned her focus inward, to the little witchy corner of herself that stubbornly refused to go away, no matter how she tried to ignore it. She had started dabbling in university, and she'd been part of a group of witches then. They'd all been fairly serious about the craft, though a part of Molly had always wanted to just be normal, to be a part of a world without anything supernatural in it. She was a scientist, after all. But as they had told her, you never got a choice. The power chose you, and Molly had always had a talent for it.

She heard about the Buffy resurrection through the magical grapevine, from other witches who paid attention to such things. It had been an emotionally difficult time for all of them, first hearing of the success of a spell which really ought not to work, then finding out what had happened to Buffy and the fallout with the witch who had raised her. Molly had promised herself then that she would never, _never_ use magic to meddle with life and death. Perhaps that was some of what had driven her to become a pathologist – that sobering reminder that death was a final thing that came to all people, sooner or later.

So why was she second-guessing herself now? The part of her where the magic lived was excited by the prospect, not just of using real magic again, but of attempting something as daring and taboo as cheating death.

And then there was Sherlock. He was definitely going to do this, no matter what she did. He was absolutely prepared to die, which was frightening. Had Moriarty really got so close to him? Though Sherlock's attachment to John was obvious, even more so than his efforts to hide it. The weakness was clear.

She opened her eyes, and saw Sherlock watching her expectantly. “You went somewhere for a moment.”

“I did?”

“Not in a ...” He waved a hand. “Magic sort of way. Mentally.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Well?”

She sighed, but her mind was made up. “I'll need some time.”

 

The text arrived shortly after dawn, when the sky had just become bright. Molly was sitting in front of a window overlooking the street. She knew that Sherlock was directly above her, standing on the edge of the roof. Ready to complete Moriarty's story, ready to plunge to his death. Hoping it wouldn't really be his death. But they couldn't know for sure.

She checked the little egg-shaped token on the counter in front of her that represented Sherlock. It still balanced on one end in the centre of the circle of pebbles, but it had begun to tremble a minute ago, and now was humming softly. She wasn't sure what that meant, though it couldn't possibly be good.

She looked quickly around at her little setup. It was the best she could do in the time she'd had, and she hoped to the goddess it would be adequate. She took a deep breath, and started murmuring the protection incantation.

It was only a minute or two before a dark shape fell through her peripheral vision, and moments later the token fell onto the countertop with a heart-stopping _thunk_. She grabbed it before it could roll off the surface and tried to look at the pavement below, but the angle was too steep. She quickly stuffed the token and pebbles into the pockets of her lab coat and rushed out of the room, blinking back tears as she hoped against hope that Sherlock had survived.

 

She was waiting when they brought him in, and one look at his blank, bloodied face told her that the hard work had only just begun.

John was practically catatonic in the little corner of the waiting room where he'd been deposited, so it fell to Molly to make the positive identification. They went through all the medical work, the physical exam and the hopeless checking for vital signs, and Sherlock was pronounced dead on arrival. When they told John, he barely responded, just a minute nod before he put his hands on his face and curled into himself, still and silent.

And then there was more work, hospital forms and police statements and everything, and finally Sherlock was stripped naked, cleaned, tagged, bagged, and brought down to the morgue. The pathologist on duty knew him, of course – he'd been there enough in life. She helped Molly get him on a slab and into refrigeration, and then with unspoken agreement left Molly to it on her own, silently retreating to a different part of the lab and closing the door.

Molly all but collapsed into the nearest chair, and she couldn't hold in her tears.

 


	2. After Life

It was the longest day of Molly's life. Even when she finally finished the preparations she could make on her own and tried to wind down and get some rest, she couldn't sleep. She laid in her bed with Toby curled up at her feet, staring at the ceiling and feeling that dropping sensation in her stomach that had first come when the token had  _clunked_ onto the counter. She tried not to remember the look on his bloody face under the bright hospital lights: half shock and half resignation, frozen and then slackened at the moment of his death, his icy eyes staring unseeingly.

The June dawn came early, and she pulled herself out of bed. She had a lot of things to do, and very little time in which to do them.

 

By the time night fell, Molly was ready. The other pathologist gave her a sad look as she left, and then she was alone, with only a couple of hours before midnight. She took Sherlock's body out of the cooler and laid him out on a slab, covered up to his waist with a thin sheet. She took the tag off his toe and tried not to look at him closely – he looked far too much like the other corpses and she couldn't bear to think that he might go to the same fate.

It didn't take long to set up, now that she had the necessary pieces, and the ritual was, surprisingly, fairly straightforward. As straightforward as something that was incredibly, deeply wrong could possibly be, anyway. By some immense stroke of luck the planets were properly aligned, and it turned out an Urn of Osiris had, for some reason, been “hidden” in a headmaster's office at a school in a London suburb. She had to return it the next day, but she had it, and the headmaster had carefully not asked what she wanted it for, though she'd heard him whisper an incantation as she left.

When Molly had begun her preparations, she had read that there had to be a circle of power to complete the ritual. But as she researched, and then when she finally inquired with what remained of the Watchers' Council, she became hopeful that she could get away without one. The less people who knew what she was doing, the better. Sherlock knew that the number of people he could trust with this was vanishingly small.

She set up three black candles on the floor in the mismatched candlesticks she had found, one at each of Sherlock's sides, and one at his feet. She lit them, then turned out the lights in the morgue. The candle light flickered off the gleaming steel and threw ominous shadows over Sherlock's still form.

Molly took her place at Sherlock's head, and set the urn on the slab next to the ingredients she had laid out. She tried to steady her breathing as her watch ticked down the last minutes before midnight.

When it struck, she lifted the urn with trembling hands, and began.

“Osiris, keeper of the gate, master of all fate, hear me.”

She mixed the ingredients in the urn, then, with shaking fingers, painted her face with the bloody potion, then the cold metal of the slab on which Sherlock lay.

“Before time and after, before knowing and nothing. Accept my offering. Know my prayer.”

She stopped with a gasp as pain slashed through her – a test. She expected this, but oh  _god_ it was distracting. She focussed on the power that flowed through her, on channelling the mystical energy through the power of the circle and into her friend.

“Osiris! Here lies the champion of the people! Let him cross over!”

There was a horrible squirming under her skin, and she didn't dare to even ponder what it might be, what price she was being asked to pay. She concentrated again on the magic, and felt it buzz and then burst, like lightning.

_WITCH!_ A horrible voice rumbled, resonating off the walls of the morgue. _YOU DARE TO INVOKE MY POWER OVER A MORTAL DEATH?_

Her voice shook with fear, but she shouted: “Let him cross over!”

_IT IS NOT YOUR PLACE TO ASK._

“Let him cross--!”

Her legs gave out suddenly, and her knees met the tile with a crunch. She caught herself on the edge of the slab before she could pitch forward, and she didn't know what pain was natural and what was supernatural. A red glow consumed her, and then spread outward to fill the room. It crackled with power, and she cried out again.

“Osiris! Release him! Osiris--”

The urn suddenly slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor, scattering shards of blood-splattered pottery. Instantly the glow went dark and the power dissipated with a deafening  _crack_ , and then Molly was left in darkness and silence but for her pounding heart and a feeling of terrified dread.

It was over. She had failed the test, she hadn't completed the ritual, she had failed Sherlock.

She wanted to die. She had summoned immense power, channelled it, even endured the tests, all for it to end when she stupidly dropped the Urn of Osiris. She was a joke of a witch, and she knew the Powers wouldn't leave it be, not after what she had tried to ask. She had brought herself into a world of suffering, and all for nothing.

Then, from above her, a hoarse gasp.

Molly almost knocked her head on the slab in her haste to get up, and stumbled to the light switch. She squinted against the bank of fluorescent lights that blinked on, and turned to Sherlock.

His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped as he sucked breath after breath of the close morgue air that still tasted like ozone from the residual power. His arms trembled violently, and he gave a great twitch as though he was trying to sit up, but instead pitched off the side of the table and onto the floor with a painful-sounding  _whump_ and an agonised groan.

She choked on a sob. “Sherlock?”

“Oh, god,” he moaned.

He's alive,  _he's alive!_ “Are you hurt?”

“Am I _hurt_?” She was impressed that he could inject so much contempt into such a short sentence. “I am _literally_ death warmed over, and to be honest I'm considering dying again.”

He was starting to lift himself up on his elbows, and she knelt in front of him. “Just … take it easy.”

“Molly.” He glanced up through his fringe, and he looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen anyone. “From now on, _nothing_ will be easy.”

“Take some _time_. I can't imagine what you've been through.”

He sat up, slowly, pulling the sheet around his hips, and he shivered.

“Oh, god, clothes, sorry. Let me just --” She gestured, then got up. “I've got some in my locker. I'll be right back.”

The reality of what she had done hit her when she pulled the door open, and she rushed to retrieve the clothes she had found for him. By the time she got back a minute later, she was crying. If Sherlock noticed he didn't say anything, and she gave him space while he dressed stiffly. Finally she heard him sigh, and turned around to see him leaning against the slab where she had laid him out only an hour before. The sleeves of the track jacket were too short, as were the legs of the trousers, but he was covered.

She wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Are you injured?”

He glanced up at her, and he looked hollow, haunted. “It's hard to say. I hurt everywhere but I don't know if that's just … an after-effect.”

“I don't know. I'm sorry. There's so little information about this.”

“Not even about the other one ten years ago?”

Molly shook her head. “It was different. She was the Slayer. She was different than you.”

He nodded carefully. “What day is it?”

“What?”

“Today, what day is today? How long was I … gone?”

“Oh. Um, I suppose it's Saturday now. The sixteenth. It's almost one in the morning.”

“And I died on the fourteenth.”

_He died._   “Yes.”

“So about forty hours.” He sighed and leaned back against the other slab. “Do you have my phone?”

“No, sorry. It wasn't on you. And all your clothes were released. I think your brother took them. They were pretty … well. Bloody.”

Sherlock made a grim face. “How battered was I?”

Molly bit her lip. “It was bad. Side of your head was smashed. You probably broke a bunch of ribs, maybe some other bones. There was a lot of blood.”

He lifted a hand and ran it through his limp hair, feeling his skull. “I'm whole now.”

“Yeah. The resurrection spell does that, puts you back together.”

He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and looked at his belly. “My appendectomy scar is gone.”

“I guess it doesn't discriminate.”

“Do you suppose my appendix is back too?”

“I really don't know, Sherlock.”

He replaced his clothing, suddenly deflated. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call my brother, let him know he can collect me.”

She fished it out of her pocket. “Is he going to get you here? He doesn't know … about this, does he?”

He shook his head. “He doesn't know about you. Not the magic, anyway. He thinks our plan worked. Probably.”

“The plan for you to not die.”

“Yes.”

“So what does he think you've been doing for two days?”

He turned her phone over in his hand, slowly. “Just lying low. Letting everything die down.” He grimaced. “Bad choice of words.”

“I just wonder if it would be suspicious, you calling him from the morgue just after midnight. Even people who don't know about ... people like me, they know enough to ask questions when something like that happens.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Come back to my flat. Get a little rest and call him in the morning. He'd believe that you'd stayed with me. Nobody can spend two days in a hospital without being seen, especially after they've been declared dead following a public suicide.”

Sherlock frowned, but he handed her phone back. “Do you have any shoes for me?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Okay. How do we get out without being seen? I'm afraid I'll stand out rather a lot upstairs.”

“I've got a spell, actually.”

“Make us invisible?”

“Not invisible, just … make people not notice.”

“And it works?”

She shrugged. “I haven't used it in a long time, but I used to be pretty good.”

“All right.” He straightened up slowly, and Molly could tell he was still in considerable pain. “Let's get it over with.”

 

They made it out of the hospital without anyone looking at them for more than a split second, and they both relaxed when they were finally out on the dark, deserted street. “It's best we don't walk together,” Sherlock said, hunching into his jacket. “You go ahead, walk your normal route. I'll be ten minutes behind. Go inside, do your normal thing, and then come down to get me.”

It turned out that he took a bit longer than ten minutes, but he did arrive, and was confident he hadn't been recognized, looking as he did like a drugged-out junkie. When he got into Molly's flat, Toby froze and puffed up his tail, and then fled to hide under her bed. They were both unnerved by this, though they did their best to shrug it off. Sherlock took a shower while Molly set up the couch for him, and he looked slightly better when he finally emerged dressed in old scrub bottoms, a fresh tee, and thick socks that were too small. He accepted the couch gratefully, and laid down.

Molly turned out the light and went into her bedroom. She got ready for bed quickly, and as she was leaving the bathroom she heard Sherlock's voice, quiet and unsure in the semi-darkness. “Molly?”

“Yeah?” She stepped into the living room and saw him, still lying on the couch under a pile of blankets.

He looked over at her. “I just … I just wanted to be sure you were there.”

“I'm here. Do you need anything?”

A dark expression passed over his face, and Molly shivered. “I … um. I don't want to be alone.”

“Oh.” Understandable, considering. Probably. Who know what he had been through. She came over to the couch and lifted the blankets off his feet before curling into the corner and replacing them across her body. He bent his knees to accommodate her, and tucked his toes under her leg.

“Thank you.” It was almost too soft to hear.

“It's okay.”

“You don't have to.”

“It's really okay.”

He didn't answer, and she closed her eyes. She could tell she wasn't going to sleep, but she could rest. Or try.

They stayed like that for a long time. Finally she started to get a little stiff, and shifted around slightly, turning sideways before laying her legs alongside Sherlock's and reclining against the end of the couch. When she looked up at his face, he was watching her.

“Okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

She pulled one of the blankets up to her chin. “What about you?”

He glanced away and pressed his lips together.

She considered for a moment, then took a deep breath. “What was it like?”

His eyes snapped back onto hers, and his expression was guarded. “You mean ...”

“Yeah. I mean, if you want to.”

He shifted around a little on the couch, and pulled his blankets tighter. “I don't really know how to describe it. It was … quiet.” He looked away again. “Like it's never been quiet before. My life is always so noisy, my mind working. But for the first time there was just stillness.” He paused. “It was … peaceful.”

Molly couldn't see for the tears that filled her eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

He leaned his legs gently into hers. “Don't be. I asked you to, I wanted it.”

She shook her head, and started to cry harder. “I shouldn't have --” She broke off with a gasping sob. “I shouldn't have done it. I meddled in things I had no business with, I played with life and death.”

“Molly ...”

“You were at peace. You should have _stayed_.”

“Molly, no.” And then he was sitting up, his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. I couldn't stay. Not with John still alive. I can't leave him, I _can't_.”

She wiped her face messily. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You were amazing. You did what nobody else could have. You saved me. And I have no idea what you had to do but Molly, I'm grateful, I'm so much more grateful than I could possibly say.”

She sniffed, but didn't say anything, and he gave her arm one more squeeze before he leaned back. They lay there quietly until the first streaks of morning began to appear in the sky.

 


End file.
